


The Second Time Around

by raregloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Polyamory, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1834837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregloves/pseuds/raregloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Greg are both keeping secrets about their pasts, and about Sherlock. But the truth always finds a way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second Time Around

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I generally feel the world needs more Holmescest, especially more beautifully written Holmescest which you clearly have no problems producing given your lovely, lovely "If This Is How You See Me." Do you think you might be willing to take on Lestrade/Sherlock/Mycroft? If polyamory is alright with you, I'd love to see what you'd make of it!

Greg wriggled his toes where they were wedged under Mycrofts thigh. The many beers he had consumed, along with the fact that he was on holiday, with the man he loved, by a warm fire, combined to give him a feeling of extreme happiness. As if a bright bubble was expanding inside his chest.

‘You’re drunk,’ Mycroft said, smiling. ‘You always smile like that when you’re drunk.’ 

‘Like what?’ Greg asked, immediately trying to stop smiling and finding himself unable to do so. ‘I don’t have a drunk smile.’ 

‘You certainly do,’ Mycroft said.

‘Well, you have a drunk giggle,’ Greg countered. ‘It’s… adorable.’ 

‘I do not _giggle_ and I am _not_ adorable,’ Mycroft said. ‘I am a dull government official with a drunk partner and a perfectly reasonable disposition.’ 

Greg burst out laughing. Once, his laughing at Mycroft might’ve alarmed or upset the elder Holmes. He had initially been wary of being genuinely mocked. Approaching their two-year anniversary, however, meant that Greg could now laugh quite freely without fearing a Mycroftian withdrawal. 

‘Perfectly reasonable my arse,’ Greg said. ‘Three weeks ago you slowed down all the west-bound traffic in London just to get a better CCTV image of a man you thought _might_ be a spy.’

‘Yes, well, had he been a spy the situation would’ve been quite serious.’

‘But he wasn’t, was he?’ Greg said, grinning, and Mycrofts lips twitched in response. ‘You’re full of secrets, Mr Holmes. I’m sure I’ll never know all of them.’

‘I think you nearly do,’ Mycroft said.

‘Nearly, though,’ Greg said, wagging his finger. He was enjoying this conversation immensely, especially as he felt that (despite the alcohol) he had the upper hand. ‘A nearly isn’t everything. You’ve probably got some weird sex thing you’ve never told anybody.’ 

To his surprise, Mycroft did not laugh. He went a deep shade of purple and looked away. Greg felt the thigh on top of his toes tense. So there was something, then! Something Mycrfot had never told anybody! 

‘Confess, then,’ Greg said. ‘I won’t mind, whatever it is. You know about my… you know, liking to show off a bit.’

‘Exhibitionism, Greg,’ Mycroft said. ‘That’s the word you're after.’ 

‘Yep,’ Greg said proudly. ‘And you like it, don’t you?’ 

‘Remind me how much I like it,’ Mycroft said, voice lowering. 

Greg did so, too drunk to realize how seamlessly Mycroft had managed to change the subject.

 

~

 

Later, once he was sober, Greg realized how easily he’d been distracted. Beer and sex with Mycroft were two guaranteed ways to get his mind off-track, and in general ruin his focus. 

It didn’t matter though. He could ask again, sober, and be more tactful about it. Remind Mycroft that whatever it was, Greg wouldn’t mind. And if he didn’t want to talk about it, well, that was fine too. 

Sally opened the door to his office, wearing the pained expression he associated with Sherlock. Damn. 

‘He’s just arrived,’ she said. ‘I think he wants in on the Holland case. John's with him. Should I put them off?’ 

Greg considered it, but then shook his head. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was stumped. The Holland case was a vile mess. Sally knew it, too. She withdraw from his office without a word, perhaps in sympathy. 

Sherlock had been astoundingly annoying in the early days of his relationship with Mycroft. He’d been prone to announcing details of their sex life whenever Greg annoyed him. It’d made him think longingly of the days when Sherlock had just pick-pocketed him. 

He could see Sherlock coming towards his office now, coat collar popped up and expression haughty. John was following him, but checking his phone at the same time. 

Greg got the pictures from the Holland case on-screen, preparing himself for a barrage of questions. He could only hope that the expression on Sherlocks face was just for show, and that he wasn’t in as foul a mood as he looked. 

‘Ah, Greg, been drinking with my brother again,’ Sherlock said as he opened the door. ‘How domestic of you. Though I think your time might’ve been better used by, say, attempting to catch a serial killer…’ 

‘We’re not sure if he’s a serial killer,’ Greg said. ‘It might just be copycats. And I’ll thank you to keep my private life out of it.’ 

Sherlock sniffed, uninterested, walking around Gregs desk to get a better look at the screen. John put his phone in his pocket and winced in apology, mouthing the word _bored_ and nodding towards Sherlock.

He sighed. A bored Sherlock was never, ever fun, but he was quick about solving cases. Greg prepared himself for a long haul and settled into his chair. 

‘Well, Sherlock? What’ve you got so far?’

 

~

 

 _Will be home late. Sherlock helping with Holland case. XXX._  

Mycroft read the text and sighed, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. In an ideal world it would have been a little longer before Greg spoke to Sherlock. A little more time for Greg to forget the incident of the other night… 

Normally Mycroft would have kept his poker face intact. But something about Greg, flushed with drinking and wagging his finger whilst grinning like a schoolboy had rendered Mycroft utterly unable to dissemble. 

Greg had always had that affect on him, though. His intelligence and determination were not unique, Mycroft knew, but combined with a genuine desire to help people, a keen sense of fairness... well. That was, in Mycrofts experience, something to be cherished.

Which was why the conversation had unsettled him so much. 

_You’ve probably got some weird sex thing you’ve never told anybody…_

Mycroft knew what Greg was thinking: some strange kink, something essentially harmless but embarrassing. Watersports, perhaps, or having Greg wear his old uniform while ‘arresting’ Mycroft and scolding him as a naughty, naughty boy. 

Either of those things, in Mycrofts opinion, were improvements upon the truth. 

The truth, which lingered on even after nine years.

 

~

 

Sherlock downed a glass of champagne. Was this his sixth? Or seventh? Or had the scotch counted as the sixth, making this his eighth-? 

He didn’t know. Couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he was (at last!) properly drunk. Being drunk was, in this instance, a coping mechanism. The party was dull, was in fact the physical manifestation of dullness. The people were dull, their secrets were dull, the food was inedible, the music awful, and nobody was dancing. 

Drunkenness was the only possible solution. 

His parents were glad he’d come, though- that was something. Sherlock didn’t seem them very often now and knew he didn’t call as regularly as Mycroft did. He did love his parents, and even his brother. Though it wasn't the same sort of love. He'd always loved Mycroft better than most people. And he certainly loved him more than all the people currently in the room. It was his parents friends, and his distant relations, that Sherlock could not stand. Especially when they were all gathered together in one dull, tedious place. 

One of his very distant cousins was eyeing him from across the room. She was very attractive and clearly knew it. Sherlock didn’t even know her name, and doubted that she knew his. 

She caught him looking and waved, clearly preparing to make a move. Panicking, Sherlock waved back in the campest way possible, trying desperately to indicate how not interested he was before she got any closer. 

Clearly, she’d gotten the message. She scowled and turned on her heel, vanishing into the crowd. Sherlock giggled into his empty glass, pleased with himself. 

There was a loud, electric humming sound, an abrupt _crack,_ and the entire house was plunged into darkness. A few people shrieked in alarm. Sherlock beamed. He could find somewhere secluded to smoke, now, without being caught. The backup generators would have to be turned on manually. 

He put his glass down and walked swiftly across the room, refusing to apologize as he bumped into anonymous family members. He would use Mycrofts spare room. It had a balcony, and if either of his parents noticed the smell he could claim it was his brothers doing. 

Excellent scheme. 

Sherlock navigated the house with ease. Even plunged into darkness and filled with confused voices, he knew the layout as well as he knew the back of his own hands.

The sounds of the party became distant as he climbed the staircase towards his brothers room. He was drunk enough to almost trip up the stairs, but not so drunk that he fell. 

The door was closed but not locked. Sherlock pushed it open and took two steps in before crashing against a taller, suited man. He hit the floor with a loud thump, pain shooting up his tailbone. Sherlock hissed slightly. 

The mans hands had shot out to catch him. In the darkness they gripped Sherlocks shoulders and pulled him up. And then the mans hands just… lingered, sliding down Sherlocks shoulders to rest against his chest. 

Now, Sherlock thought, this I can encourage. He forgot all about the cigarettes in his pocket in favor of leaning forwards into the mans touch. Something (he hadn’t yet deduced what it was) seemed to attract women towards him, despite his complete lack of reciprocation. It was a pleasant change to have a man pounce on him, in the dark. 

Sherlock leant up, pressed his lips against the strangers. He could see, dimly, his face outlined by the silver light from the half-moon, just visible through the balcony curtains. 

And the stranger kissed back. Their lips parted, Sherlock taking over the kiss at once, pressing his tongue into the warm heat of an anonymous mouth. His hands moved to rest on the strangers hips. 

Yet as Sherlock kissed, eyes closed, trying to focus on the sensation of a body against his own, certain details refused to be ignored. Who had been lurking in Mycrofts spare room, anyway? Had he interrupted a robbery? 

But it seemed unlikely. Sherlock slid his hands up the mans back, noting the expensive fabric under his hands. Probably the husband of one of his aunts, Sherlock thought, moaning a little at the thought. Whoever he was, he was the best kisser Sherlock had ever encountered.  

Who wore the exact same cologne as Mycroft- 

The man pushed him away just as Sherlocks mind lit up in realization. Then, with another hum, the house came to life. The light in the center of the room came on with a loud click. 

Mycroft was gaping at him. Sherlock gaped right back for a few seconds before the ridiculousness of the situation overwhelmed him. He burst out laughing, bending at the waist, giggling and trying in vain not to hiccup. 

‘You’re pissed,’ Mycroft said, sounding both annoyed and relieved. ‘Christ, Sherlock.’ 

‘I almost thought you were a burglar,’ Sherlock said, still heaving with laughter. 

‘And that was your method of subduing the criminal?’ Mycroft said, bemused. ‘I can see you’ll make a great detective.’ 

‘Why?’ Sherlock said, standing to his full height again. ‘Wasn’t it working?’ 

To his astonishment Mycroft blushed. Sherlock blinked, properly taking in his brothers appearance (beyond his hilarious, shocked expression): his cheeks were flushed, his posture awkward, his eyes dark and unwilling to focus on him for more than a moment. 

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Sherlock breathed. ‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? It _was_ working.’ 

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Mycroft said, trying to walk past him. Sherlock moved swiftly, putting himself in Mycrofts path. Instead of pushing past, however, Mycroft stepped back. Yes, Sherlock thought, definitely unwilling to touch. 

‘Interesting,’ Sherlock said. 

‘Is it?’ Mycroft replied, trying and failing to sound bored. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’ 

‘It is, though!’ Sherlock said, feeling increasingly delighted. ‘We think just alike! We’d be able to anticipate each others moves, challenge each other sexually in ways that nobody else-’ 

‘Sherlock, I have no interest in _challenging_ you sexually.’

‘That’s not what I see,’ Sherlock said. ‘Just look at you, standing there like… like…’ Sherlock realized he was too drunk to think up a really brilliant metaphor. ‘Like somebody who really enjoyed kissing his brother.’ 

Mycroft stared at him as the words hung in the air between them. They sounded horribly illicit, spoken out loud like that. Illicit, but brilliant. 

Mycroft broke the stillness, lunging forwards and taking Sherlocks face into his hands to kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.

 

~

 

After the conclusion of the Holland case Greg slept for twelve hours straight. Mycroft, who worked from home at least twice a week, made him breakfast and called the Yard, smoothly explaining that their DI was experiencing extreme fatigue and was not to be called in unless there was an emergency.

He carried the breakfast tray into their bedroom. Greg was waking, slowly but surely: his snoring had gone from the deep, bed-shaking rumbles of exhaustion to gentle snores of a light sleep. 

He would be starving when he woke up. 

‘Greg,’ Mycroft whispered. ‘Greg, wake up. You need to eat. You get nauseous if you go without food for more than twelve hours. Greg?’ 

Greg moaned, opening his eyes. He brightened at once, though, upon seeing the tray Mycroft held.

‘You’re a blessing,’ he said, sitting up with a wince. ‘You’re an angel in disguise, Mycroft Holmes.’ 

‘Oh, I know,’ Mycroft said, setting down the tray by Greg and climbing in the bed.

They sat in comfortable silence together while Greg ate. Mycroft kept his phone close, receiving the occasional text that needed to be replied to, or email that needed to be sent. Nothing urgent came up, however. Mycroft relished the fact that he lived in an era where work like his could be done from the comfort of bed. 

Greg cleared the tray at speed, then placed it on the bedside table and belched. He looked sleepy and very, very satisfied. Mycroft knew the details of the Holland case. He fully expected it to be on the front of the evening paper, in fact. 

No doubt Greg would be called in for some kind of press conference, then. Mycroft always liked to watch those, even if Greg found them mortifying.

‘I was thinking about what you said, the other night,’ Greg said. ‘About not knowing all your strange sex secrets.’ 

Mycroft felt the muscles in his face twitch slightly. 

‘I just want you to know, you can tell me, really,’ Greg said. ‘No matter how odd it is. I’d like to know. But if you don’t want to tell me that’s fine as well. Either way, you know?’ 

‘I know,’ Mycroft said stiffly. All his previous peace had vanished. 

Could he tell Greg? They had, after all, been consenting adults. Sherlock hadn’t been that drunk… drunk enough to know who Mycroft was, drunk enough not to regret it, afterwards.

But it was still illegal, and in the eyes of many, immoral. Mycroft was the older brother, was the smarter, more responsible one. He should have been the one to put a stop to it, not- 

And of course, Greg would realize why Sherlock was the way he was. So unromantic, so uninterested in perusing sex or relationships. Greg would realize that it was his fault, that he had irredeemably broken his younger brother, deliberately, sexually, permanently. 

Would Greg still be so accepting, then? Would Greg still love and want him, then? 

But if he didn’t tell, didn’t explain the situation… would Greg keep wondering? Would it eventually become an insurmountable secret between them, a source of constant bitterness and aggression?  
  
It wasn’t impossible. So often in life one small secret could be the catalyst, the thing that grew and evolved until it consumed other problems, because the source of all hatred and uncertainty.

Perhaps Greg would assume something even worse than the truth? Something even more illegal, perhaps…

‘I will tell you,’ Mycroft said, terrified. ‘But I will fully understand that if after hearing this you wish to have nothing more to do with me. You will be the only person to know, apart from… well. Apart from the other person involved.’

Greg nodded, sitting up in bed, his face deadly serious.

 

~

 

 

A strange feeling rose up in Gregs chest as Mycroft finished his story. A huge number of emotions pulled at him, each demanding his attention. 

Shock, yes, because who wouldn’t be shocked to discover that their lover had slept with their brother, and continued to fantasize about it? Worry, because of the subtly terrified look on Mycrofts face…

And yet the emotion that dominated was relief. It was not as bad as he had started to fear, when Mycroft started talking. He had started to imagine all kinds of things. 

‘I’m… well I’m not glad, exactly,’ Greg said. ‘But at the same time I’m feeling relieved, more than anything else.’ 

‘Relieved?’ 

Mycrofts eyes almost bulged out of his head. 

‘Yeah,’ Greg said, shifting uncomfortably. His stomach was very full. ‘You see… I, um, I’ve had an incident with Sherlock too. Years ago. As it turns out. And I never wanted to tell you either because, well, he is your brother… but… well. I can now, can’t I?’  
  
Mycroft nodded, pale and stunned. He seemed to have expected a stronger reaction: vomiting, punches flying, screaming. Well, Greg didn’t feel much like doing any of that. 

‘Tell me, then,’ Mycroft said. 

So Greg did.

 

~

 

Sherlock and Greg took the stairs slowly. They were both feeling deeply, deeply hacked off, though for entirely different reasons. 

Sherlock had been trailing (and texting Greg) almost all day, ever since he’d seen the news about the murder in Bond Street. He knew that if Greg gave him the case he’d be able to solve it. He knew it. 

However Greg (stubborn, annoying, rule abiding Greg!) refused to be helped. He continued to insist, even in the face of mounting evidence, that he’d be able to solve it, that the solution would be simple the moment he put all the pieces in place. 

Greg opened the door to his flat and walked inside without speaking. Sherlock followed, preparing himself for round four of persuasion. He would remind Greg of the recent case with the lighthouse and the canary, and the cold case he’d solved with a blunt kitchen knife. 

Like most people, Greg could be dim and forgetful. He would see sense once he remembered how much of a genius Sherlock was. 

Greg sat on his favorite arm chair with a sigh of frustration. Sherlock stood in front of him, wondering how he should open the conversation. Nothing too obviously confrontational. Maybe a backhand compliment? 

‘Give it up, Sherlock,’ Greg said. ‘Whatever it is you’re planning on saying? Don’t say it. It won’t help. I just need to think.’ 

‘I can help you think,’ Sherlock said. ‘Think of me like your brain.’ 

‘I have my own brain, Sherlock. If you really want to help me, make me some tea, or give me a damn foot massage, or something. _Anything._ Don’t just stand there.’ 

A foot massage sounded particularly unappealing to Sherlock, but it did give him an interesting mental image. Himself, kneeling in front of Greg. An orgasm might be just what he needed, Sherlock mused. Make him feel friendly towards Sherlock, relax him…

He sat down in front of Greg, who had (unwisely) closed his eyes. 

It had been a long time since he’d done this. But Sherlock knew he had an excellent memory and besides, he’d always believed in working on the job.

He reached out and pressed his palm against Gregs groin. Greg jumped nearly a foot into the air, as if he’d sat down on a pin. 

‘Sherlock!’ 

‘No?’ Sherlock asked, looking up from beneath his eyelashes. ‘I thought it might relax you. Give your mind a rest. I don’t mind.’ 

‘It’s not a matter of you not _minding,_ ’ Greg started, but Sherlock spoke over him. 

‘Good, because I _don’t_ mind. In fact I’d rather like to. Unless you have an actual, serious objection?’ 

He let his fingers rest against the buckle of Gregs belt. Above him Greg swallowed, his expression curious. 

‘You… want to? Actually _want to_ , want to?’ 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock drawled, slightly annoyed. ‘That is what I said, very clever.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

He felt Gregs cock twitch against the inside of his palm. Success!

‘Well…’ Greg said, slowly. ‘If you want to…’ 

‘I do,’ Sherlock said, and he began to work on the belt around Gregs hips, licking his lips as he did so.

 

~

 

 _Sherlock come see me during my lunch hour don’t bring John not case related._  

Greg hit send, and as he did so fear exploded in the pit of his stomach. He had talked about this with Mycroft for weeks, planning for every single one of Sherlocks possible reactions. Even so, Greg felt woefully underprepared for what he was about to do. 

‘Sally? I need a minute.’ 

Sally ducked into his office, her arms full of files. For a brief moment he envied her life, which was certainly free of incestuous relationships. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘Sherlock is coming in at lunch. I’ve invited him, but it isn’t a work thing. Just a family thing.’

She looked nonplussed, but thankfully not too bothered. 

‘Rather you than me, frankly,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I’ll make sure nobody interrupts.’ 

‘Thanks.’ 

She left, and Greg returned to his computer, trying to focus on the words onscreen. It would be so much simpler if he could just immerse himself in work like Mycroft did.

He managed about half a page of paperwork before Sherlock arrived. There was no sign of John, which was a relief. A mixture of curiosity and resentment mixed together in Sherlocks expression. 

‘What’s this about?’ Sherlock said, the moment he was inside the office. ‘Has something happened to Mycroft?’  
  
‘No, no…’ Gregs stomach twisted. ‘Sit down. This might take a while.’ 

Sherlock sat, looking very, very suspicious. 

‘I know about… well, that is to say that Mycroft, um,’ Greg faltered. It was easier preparing the words with Mycroft than it was actually saying them to Sherlocks face. ‘Mycroft told me about what happened. Between the two of you.’ 

‘Oh,’ Sherlock said, going rather pale. ‘And… what? Are you going to arrest me?’ 

‘No. No, no, no,’ Greg said. ‘After he told me about… what happened with him, I told him about what’d happened between us. You remember?’

‘I remember,’ Sherlock said, frowning. ‘But I still don’t understand. What do you want? An apology? A threesome?’ 

Greg shrugged, inclining his head slightly. He was rather proud of himself for not blushing, in fact. Sherlocks expression, which had been closed up, was now openly shocked. 

‘You… called me in over your lunch break to ask if I felt like having a threesome with you and my brother?’

‘Yeah,’ Greg said, unable to stop himself from smiling. ‘Mycroft was under the impression that he ruined your sexual development, or some bullocks. I don’t think so, though. He was just feeling guilty. It was a hell of a secret, after all. Don’t you think it’d be… better? To have it all out in the open?' 

Sherlock was gaping a little. As if suddenly becoming aware of this fact he snapped his mouth shut, turning pink. He seemed to be recovering from his shock, now- his expression calculating, thoughtful.

‘You’d really do this?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Even though we’re related, even though you’re primarily monogamous?’ 

‘I’ve given it quite a lot of thought, you know,’ Greg said, growing frustrated. ‘I didn’t find out five minutes ago and invite you over to see how quick I could get a threeway started. This could be something. If you’re not a total tit about everything.’ 

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together beneath his chin, eyes gleaming. It was a look Greg knew well, and his stomach leapt, half in triumph and half in terror.

‘Ok,’ Sherlock said. ‘Tell me what you had in mind.’

 

~

 

Sherlock stood opposite Mycroft, almost close enough to touch him but not quite. To the right was the bed Mycroft usually shared with Greg, and to the left was Greg himself. 

He’d taken a chair from the kitchen into the bedroom, which he was now sitting on, watching. There had been a brief but angry debate about the lighting (Sherlock had wanted all the lights off, Mycroft had wanted almost complete darkness), which had been resolved with the main light being turned off, but the lamps left on. 

‘Go on,’ Greg said, smirking. ‘You’re not here to look at each other.’ 

Sherlock leant forwards until the tip of his nose was pressed against Mycrofts. No other part of their bodies touched. Sherlock was cross-eyed but didn’t care. He wanted to kiss, wanted it, wanted it, but not just yet… 

‘Don’t push,’ Sherlock said. ‘We’ve been waiting years. A few more seconds won’t hurt. Anticipation is part of the game.’ 

‘Perhaps,’ Greg said, ‘but I can’t get off to anticipation, personally.’ 

‘You could join us,’ Mycroft said, not looking away from Sherlock. ‘We did offer. Repeatedly.’ 

‘And I said not this time,’ Greg said. ‘This time, it’s just about the two of you. I’ll join in later. Now for fucks sake _kiss or something._ ’ 

Mycroft tilted his head until his lips brushed against Sherlocks. The touch was only feather light but seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Sherlock felt his pulse increase, until it seemed astounding that it wasn’t echoing in the sudden silence.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump…_

Sherlock hadn’t been a virgin the night he and Mycroft had fucked. By that point he’d already experimented at length at university, first with Sebastian and later with Victor. 

Neither of them, though, had compared to the single night he’d spent with Mycroft. It had been exactly like he’d expected sex to be, but never had been before. A perfect blend of bodies, of known and unknown. 

And then, shocked and ashamed by his own desire, Mycroft had withdrawn from his life, becoming cold and argumentative, trying to prevent even innocent kindness from developing between them, always fearing where it might lead. 

Those had been hard years, for Sherlock. He’d been exposed to something brilliant (illicit, hot, amazing) only to have it slip right through his fingers. He’d fucked other people. He’d messed around with drugs, half to dull the pain and half because of the way it made Mycroft react: worried, angry, unable to hide the way he cared. 

Never had Sherlock imaged that he would end up here. 

He pressed his lips up against Mycrofts, remembering the way it had been, years ago in the dark. Greg sighed. Mycroft wrapped both his arms around Sherlocks middle, almost hugging him. 

And Sherlock relaxed into him, opening his mouth and closing his eyes, home at last.

**Author's Note:**

> You can send me a prompt on my tumblr- I love rare pair fic :)
> 
> raregloves.tumblr.com


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